


Break the Ice

by astrosaur



Category: Johnny's Entertainment, Sexy Zone
Genre: M/M, an Olympics AU that is as lengthy as it is cheesy, on the off-chance that the holiday staples aren't already giving you diabetes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-16 03:11:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13045281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrosaur/pseuds/astrosaur
Summary: Figure skater Kento and hockey player Fuma attend a training camp for Japan's Winter Olympics athletes, where they reconnect through fate and friendly interventions.





	Break the Ice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [you ♥](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=you+%E2%99%A5).



> A holiday gift for all the Sexy Girls and Boys out there - メリクリ!
> 
> ETA [visuals](http://astrosaur.tumblr.com/post/176784912859/if-you-knew-how-happy-these-visuals-made-me-youd)!

           

           

            In his half-awake state, Kento doesn’t think twice to step inside a bathroom that’s already occupied. Fuma is in the same condition, unfazed by Kento reaching around him to grab his toothbrush. The two of them go about their morning routines in sluggish and near-companionable silence, as though they’ve been sharing a living space for longer than 24 hours.

            It’s a promising start. Ideally, they’ll preserve this blasé treatment of their living situation from start to end of training camp. Drama is the last thing they need, given the grander task ahead of them: to represent Japan in the upcoming Winter Olympic Games.

            Unplanned roommates may understandably put a damper on one’s concentration, but _some_ coaches failed to factor this into their logistic preparations. Just last week, Kento, Sou, and Marius were under the impression that the whole figure skating contingent was granted residency, and were subsequently thrown for a loop upon hearing that no, they won’t have a room to share among the three of them. Nagano, Kento’s coach, had regretfully explained that “room counts fell through.” With a world-weary glance at Go and Ken (Sou and Marius’s coaches), Nagano more or less confirmed Kento’s suspicions on why their final arrangements deviated from their original plans.

            The fix that the coaching team came up with was to have Kento, Sou, and Marius claim sleeper couches in the triple rooms closest to the ice rink. Rooms that happened to belong to members of the men’s hockey team. The news drew grousing from Kento, but Sou took it in stride. He pointed out personal connections that they each had with some of the hockey players – Nikaido was Sou’s upperclassman in high school, Marius is a former pupil of Fujigaya’s, and Kento and Fuma “go way back”.

            The last part is simultaneously true and inconsequential. The (younger, more naïve) figure skaters believe that Kento and Fuma have a stronger connection than they do, stemming from skating lessons that the pair took together in their youth. In truth, Kento and Fuma did get along back then – in those days, Kento called Fuma a younger brother, and in turn, Fuma called him a squirrel. (Kento liked to think there was affection underlying that nickname.) However, after gravitating towards different sports, diving in with both feet into divergent fields, it was only natural that they drifted apart.

            In the end, irrespective of Sou’s off-base estimation of lapsed friendships, Kento’s chivalrous side won over. He retracted his lamentations and graciously accepted their fate. He didn’t even protest when Sou volunteered him for the triple room belonging to Fuma, Kitayama, and Shori.

            And that brings him to the present day, where Kento is sleepily watching white foam slosh in his mouth next to a past-friend-slash-present-roommate-slash-future-fellow-Olympian.

            There’s nothing stopping Kento from leaving the cramped bathroom and instead using the sink in the separate toilet, which is smaller but serviceable. But the early hour makes the trek across the room seem like an insurmountable, pain-in-the-ass chore. And this bathroom-sharing incident will probably pass without either of them acknowledging each other in any shape or form. Of course, the second Kento thinks this, his right elbow bangs into Fuma’s left, one going on an upstroke at the same time the other drops.

            Kento’s index finger is halfway raised to direct them on how to position themselves, only Fuma’s one step ahead of him, passing behind him and switching places so they’re out of each other’s elbowing perimeter. After they strategically maneuver themselves, yet another roommate’s head wedges through the doorway.

            “‘Morning.” Shori does a double take when he sees two occupants. “Oh, you’re… both in here. Right. Erm, I’m going ahead to catch up with Nozomu. Kitayama’s still asleep. I don’t think he’ll mind if you two want to go for a jog without him, though. Just throwing that out there.”

            Fuma makes a vaguely agreeing sound as he spits into the sink.

            Shori disappears with a slightly awkward “see you later!”, ducking out of view.

            Kento numbly continues brushing for a while longer before he gargles and follows suit. “Did I hear wrong, or did your teammate suggest that we go jogging together?”

            “It’s not so odd to think that jogging would be part of your regimen.” Fuma’s face is half-hidden by the towel he’s wiping his mouth with, but there’s no way Kento can miss the mirth in his eyes. “Must be nice that you figure skaters don’t need as much conditioning.”

            Kento fires back automatically, defending his profession’s honor in addition to his own. “I do have to go to for a run, I just didn’t know hockey players need to do everything in groups.”

            By the time Kento’s brain groggily catches up to how snide his response had been, Fuma’s already gone. His morning brain had forgotten that they aren’t friendly enough for him to be taking those kinds of digs. He dashes out of the bathroom to change into suitable clothing, intending to race after Fuma and offer an admission of wrongdoing. With a beanie placed crookedly on his head and one leg halfway into his running tights, Kento skips on one foot towards where he kept his running shoes.

            Kento arrives at the doorway miraculously unscathed, and he throws the door open, revealing Fuma jogging in place. “Hey, I… I wasn’t all the way awake yet when I blurted that out,” Kento stammers, tongue apparently also struggling to catch up with the rest of him. “It’s not like I have a low opinion of team sports or something.”

            “Save it, Nakajima. If you’re planning to warm up, you better do it now. I don’t want to hear any excuses when I leave you in the dust.” And just like that, Fuma takes off on a light jog.

            Kento huffs disbelievingly. He absolves himself over his earlier tactlessness and zips his jacket up to his chin before bouncing on the balls of his feet and sprinting after Fuma.

            “I should probably warn you, what happened this morning is partly your fault,” Fuma informs Kento once the latter jogs up next to him. “Remember the ceremony when they announced the Olympic participants? The team saw you pulling me aside to nag at me, and now they think something went down between us.”

            Kento remembers that. “Well, it’s not my fault I had something to say about you acting like a high school freshman in front of Japan’s top athletes. It’s like you haven’t changed at all since we were kids.”

            Fuma grins while keeping his eyes straight ahead. “Yeah. I’m still the future of Asian ice hockey.”

            Kento remembers _that_ , too. At thirteen years old, Fuma had already been vocal about his ambitions in a sport that hardly anyone around them was concerned with.

            “And you’re still looking for your epic love story on ice,” Fuma continues. “Dealt with a lot of ’personal affairs’ last year, did you?”

            Fuma is referring to the official reason Kento had given as to why he dropped out from last year’s World Figure Skating Championships. It was all over the news, although the ‘epic love story’ part is purely Fuma’s conjecture.

            Right or wrong, Kento doesn’t appreciate him bringing it up. “That’s in the past,” he says tersely. “Right now, I’m solidly in the top 3. I’m set to collect the gold, one after the other. Grand Prix Finals, Olympics, and then Worlds.” He doesn’t notice when they went from jogging to running. It’s timely, giving him something to do with a fresh surge of motivation.

            “You’ve changed a bit,” Fuma decides. “You used to shy away from pressure when we were kids. You’d slip at least once whenever your dad made time to watch our exhibitions.”

            Kento manages to keep his tone light as he says, “I wasn’t born cocky like you.” He brings up another topic before Fuma can take offense. “Speaking of pressure, what’s your coach like? Mine told me stories about him from the ’94 Olympics.”

            “Coach Sakamoto? The legends are true according to our physician, though he’s nowhere near as bad as he used to be. Right now he’s riding us hard ‘cause we barely squeezed through the qualification rounds. It’s what the team needs.”

            “Oh? I wouldn’t have pegged you for the type that advocates the disciplinarian style.”

            “Kitayama gets the brunt of it since he’s team captain. But then I’m unofficially slated to take over after he retires, so I suppose Coach gets on my back a lot, too.”

            “Oh, really? I had no idea! When is that happening?”

            “Next year, after playoffs.”

            “No way! So soon?!”

            Before long, they’re too out-of-breath to talk, and energy is devoted solely to outlasting one another. Fuma develops an eye-catching flush that goes from his cheekbones down his neck that Kento idly notes when he doubles over to take a breather. “Too tired for another lap?” Fuma taunts.

            “Say that again? I can’t understand you, you’re panting too hard.” Kento himself is suffering to take oxygen in. Nonetheless, he follows Fuma’s lead when the other hits the ground running one more time.

 

 

❄

 

 

            During the lunch hour, Sou and Marius sit with the members of the hockey team in the cafeteria, having seamlessly integrated into their group overnight. Kento lets them be – he finds a table where he can sit by himself, glower at his phone, and take out his rage on his salad.

            He’s not in the mood to eat, but he skipped breakfast, and he’s going to be hard on himself even if Nagano isn’t. However, it’s hard not to lose his appetite when there’s a nauseating amount of Instagram posts about a pair of jerks who got engaged. While he spears a stalk of broccoli and makes faces at his cellphone, a plastic cup of pudding appears in front of him with a soft thud.

            “Got an extra one. I only paid for one but the lady bagged two. I think she likes me.”

            Kento glances up and sees Fuma, and he promptly rolls his eyes. “I can’t eat that. Don’t try to make me fat just so you can outrun me next time.”

            “As if I need you to gain weight to beat you.” Fuma tries shoving the pudding into Kento’s face. “Look, 130 calories. You can afford it. Even if you can’t, it’d be worth it.”

            Kento swaps it away like it’s personally offending him. “That’s a third of my caloric intake for this meal! Give it to one of your teammates.”

            “I’d rather not alert them to the fact that I bought one.” Fuma sits on the bench across from Kento. “You’re not the only one who needs to watch what they eat, you know. Bad carbs are bad carbs.”

            Kento’s spirits are in a severe downward spiral and he’s not above dragging someone down with him. “So you’re sitting here to violate your meal plan in secret? Nice. Afraid your team captain isn’t going to pass the torch on to you if he sees you with that?”

            “Afraid? Kitayama lost any credibility to induce fear after his ex-girlfriend distributed his family’s home videos from the 80’s.”

            “…Yikes.”

            “Yeah, just when I thought he couldn’t get any tinier.” Fuma emphatically places the dessert right next to Kento’s salad this time. “It’s not going to kill you. Might even improve your mood.”

            As if reminded to do so, Kento deepens his scowl. He looks at the cup of pudding with nearly as much disdain as he has for his Instagram feed. “I don’t need pity dessert.”

            Fuma raises an eyebrow. “What did you want, plain old pity?”

            Kento locks his phone and slams it on the table. “I don’t need pity. Everything is fine.”

            “Yes, I can see that that’s definitely the case.”

            “All I’m feeling is ordinary disgust at idiots posting idiotic stories of their idiot boyfriends promising to marry them if one of them finishes first in Skate America. And to be extra obnoxious about it, they’re tagging like, every single person they know. I don’t even follow either of them, but our mutual friends flooded everyone’s feeds with rehashed videos and pictures in slightly varied angles and filters.”

            “Okay, that is annoying, but you’re sulking and punishing your lunch because…?”

            “Because! That guy beat Matsushima by nine points, big deal! He’s not even that—” (cute) “—talented! You can see it at first glance, I bet he’s terrible—” (in bed) “—at landing jumps!” Kento snatches the pudding and peels the lid open with as much resentment as he possibly can.

            All of a sudden, Fuma slaps the dessert out of his hand, causing it to splatter on the floor.

            Kento gives Fuma a dirty look, accusing him, “You gave that to me just so you could do that!”

            “You’re welcome!” Fuma nods his head to the side, gesturing to the entrance where Sakamoto has just entered with Nagano in tow.

            “What? You think Coach Nagano would flip out over pudding? If he saw me with sweets, he’d probably pat my head and tell me not to stress over my program. Never mind that it’s impossible, what with—” (Kento’s ex-boyfriend clogging every social network with proof of his relationship status) “—all the expectations the country has on us.”

            Fuma glances at him with mild curiosity, looking more pensive than usual. The vibe also makes him seem a little older than Kento’s used to, adding a whole new dimension to his overall charisma. Not that Kento consciously keeps track of it or anything, he’s just more familiar with the memory of Fuma’s marshmallow cheeks (gone too soon), and his adorable, then-girlish voice. “I get it. I mean, I don’t _get it_ get it, we’re pretty much in exact opposite circumstances. But that’s not to say the hockey team isn’t facing pressure. For us, since Japan didn’t even qualify for Sochi, there’s no choice but to do well in PyeongChang.”

            “Isn’t it good that people have low expectations in your case?” Kento wonders aloud, aiming to lighten Fuma’s self-imposed burden. “If you succeed, you’re a hero, and if you fall short, you don’t disappoint anyone.”

            His words have the opposite effect. “Falling short is definitely not okay,” Fuma asserts. “We _have_ to place. If it’s anything less, we lose support. We lose support, we lose what little sponsors we have.”

            “Your magazine cover stories don’t bring in the funds?” Kento asks, genuinely curious. Hockey may be relatively unpopular, but even an outsider like Kento can tell that Fuma and his team have been drumming up unprecedented interest.

            Fuma responds with a touch of defensiveness. “We could use the buzz. Besides, you’re one to talk. I can’t turn on the TV without seeing you hawking gum and sports drinks, or randomly popping up on some variety show. What does the media call their little darling again? The Ice Prince?”

            Kento sniffs. “That came from my fans.”

            “In your case, aren’t your side gigs more of a vanity project? It’s not like the world of figure skating is in need of further publicity.” Fuma speaks over Kento’s vehement interjections. “I’m starting to see your coach’s point – your stress is overblown. Compared to the others in this camp, isn’t your mountain really more of a mole hill?”

            “Yeah, you’ve got everything figured out.” Kento picks up his tray, hand shaking with restrained anger and the arguments he’s holding back. “Thanks for taking time out of your day to explain my life to me.”

            Fuma impassively watches him stand up. “You are going to do something productive with this angst of yours, right? Whatever it is that’s got you abusing vegetables, you’re better off channeling it into your routine. Isn’t that what figure skaters do, tell a story with twirls?”

            Kento comes too close to turning around and giving Fuma’s eyeballs the same treatment he’d given his broccoli a few minutes ago. He feels all the more vindicated to go off on a fuming strop.

 

 

❄

 

 

            “What are you doing here?”

            Fuma glances at Kento’s direction without slowing down. “Laps. Training. It’s what we’re here to do.” Obviously, he’s just as bitter over how their last encounter culminated.

            Kento brushes off Fuma’s saltiness, determined to play nice in order to acquire his cooperation. “Do you really need to do laps at this moment? I need extra practice to master my routine before the Grand Prix Final and there’s been a change in my program.”

            “Glad you listened to my suggestion to be productive, but I got here first. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to lead the second line in Japan’s first hockey Olympic outing in twenty years. Sorry that it’s not as high-profile as competing for Japan’s one millionth medal in figure skating.”

            Kento grits his teeth and reminds himself to be fair to Fuma’s lifelong ambitions. “I can come back in fifteen minutes. Will you be done by then?”

            “The rink doesn’t belong to you, Nakajima.”

            “How much longer are you going to take?!” Kento snaps. “I need this more than you do! I have to try this sequence on the ice!”

            “You can have the ice tomorrow if you get here first,” Fuma retorts. “I need to do these drills. You don’t have the first clue about hockey outside of KimuTaku’s drama, so you don’t get to have an opinion on whose preparations are more necessary.”

            “Right, because you’re such an expert on figure skating!”

            Fuma finally pauses, skating along the edge of the rink until he comes to a full stop in front of Kento. “Why don’t we do this: show me a move you think I can’t do, and I’ll take it on. If I can’t do it, I’ll let you have the rink for the rest of the night. If I pull it off, you have to leave, buy dinner for me, and bring it to the room so it’s ready when I get back.”

            Kento considers his options, arms akimbo. “I pick the move you have to do without your input. And you can’t back out once I show it to you.”

            “Challenge accepted.” A beat. “Except for anything that can injure me or took you months to learn.”

            Kento looks insulted by Fuma’s commonsense terms and conditions. “You can’t do jumps in those skates, at any rate. We’ll do a basic move.” Fuma takes exception to Kento’s chosen adjective, saying he’d signed up for a _challenge_ , and Kento promises him it wouldn’t be _too_ basic.

            Kento glides to the middle of the ice and does a few lackadaisical back crossovers so Fuma can get a sufficient view of them. He forms a smaller circle, raising one leg and leaning forward to wind himself up for a camel spin. He arches his back and hooks the spin, minding the straightness of his outstretched leg as he tightens his revolutions. He brings the leg down when his momentum winds down, pushing backward as he moves to stand upright.

            When Kento turns to Fuma with an expectant look, the hockey player’s face betrays no emotions. “It looks different than seeing it on TV.”

            Not expecting that comment, Kento makes a sound that could be interpreted as cordial. “Yeah, I’m pretty much spinning right next to you. Of course it’ll look different.”

            Fuma works his way up to each step leading up to the spin, understandably clumsy in his movements, especially in the beginning. Kento privately thinks it’s cute, like a panda trying to hold a yoga pose. It’s slightly less cute the more failed attempts Fuma takes, slipping on the ice about once every three times.

            “How many tries do you get?” Kento asks, half out of exasperation and half out of concern.

            “As many as I want.” Fuma manages to sound proud as he picks himself up off the ground. “You didn’t specify when I had to be able to execute it.”

            Kento shakes his head and leaves him alone after that. He figures he’s already on the ice, he might as well take advantage of it. He free-skates around Fuma, throwing in jumps and combinations to be featured in his program. When he mentally plays his song, he lands a triple Axel to the tune in his head. He pumps his fist after a clean landing, exulting in his minor victory.

            Kento glances at Fuma, who is momentarily immobile. “Why’d you stop? Are you dizzy?”

            “I had a flashback,” Fuma mutters. “I was remembering how shitty you were when we first took lessons. That first week.”

            “I was no good those first few weeks.” Kento can admit as much. “I kept thinking I had no sense of balance, and I’d get worse the more depressed I got. I used to psyche myself out.”

            “I sucked too. My mom has videos to prove it.” Fuma stares at nothing for a little while longer before he gets into position for back crossovers again. He grumbles as he does, saying how weird he feels without a stick.

            This is probably Kento’s most vivid memory of Fuma – this obstinate drive to succeed. Now that he thinks about it, it’s most likely the reason they both got so good at skating. Fuma wouldn’t give up no matter how many times he failed, and in turn, Kento couldn’t quit when his friend – that younger brother figure – had the fortitude to see it through.

            Hours later, Fuma manages a rough semblance of a camel spin. Kento gives him a pass on the crooked leg, as well as the tumble he takes from exiting the spin too suddenly. By the time Fuma accomplishes this feat, however, nothing nearby is open except for a Lawson. And a pre-packaged dinner is hardly equivalent to the effort Fuma exerted to gain his victory.

            Fuma tacks on another stipulation to their bet, adding to his spoils. In addition to buying their convenience store dinner, Fuma wants Kento to wear a hockey jersey for the upcoming movie night that the camp organizers are holding. Kento agrees eventually, reasoning to himself that he did get to use part of the rink to practice while Fuma doggedly attempted the camel spin.

            After Kento pays for the least diet-ruining items they could find in Lawson, he fusses under his breath about not wanting to go back to their room.

            “Is the sleeper sofa that bad?” Fuma asks, having overheard him. “Coach said not to hold our breath for better conditions at the Olympic village. He said they were pretty much sleeping on top of each other in his time, though that was about a hundred years ago…”

            “No, no, the sofa bed is fine. It’s just…” Kento releases a defeated sigh. “I haven’t looked at my phone all day. Not since the cafeteria.”

            Fuma doesn’t pry for further details, only helpfully advising, “Don’t look if you don’t want to.”

            Which Kento immediately shoots down. “I know me. The only way I won’t look at it is if one of you hides it from me.”

            Fuma scrunches his nose. “No one wants that kind of responsibility. Anyway, it’s too late to head back now without disturbing Kitayama and Shori. We should just find somewhere else to eat.”

            They decide to return to the rink and sit on the sidelines, delaying Kento’s inevitable battle against his morbid curiosity regarding his ex. They unwrap their containers over plastic bags on their laps and start to dig in. Halfway through their late dinner, Kento assembles the courage and mentality needed to fess up to the details of his “personal affairs”. In part, he does it to assuage the curiosity projected in Fuma’s body language. Mostly, he wants to properly vent, and Fuma isn’t the worst outlet available.

            Kento tells Fuma the story of how he and his then-boyfriend, a figure skater from Canada, broke up in the middle of an ISU tournament and ended a year-long relationship. Kento generally doesn’t deal well with break-ups, and this one in particular took him until late in the summer to truly get over. He admits his fears that he might relapse after finding out that his ex is about to get hitched to the guy he pre-cheated on Kento with.

            “‘Pre-cheated,’” Fuma echoes the term, void of judgmental inflection.

            “He didn’t physically cheat. And that was his slogan towards the end. He could have easily done it since the other guy is in the same continent as him for most of the year, and I’m not.” Kento frowns, recalling embittered dialog that came to replace the sweet ones. “We fought about that a lot. He’d make me sound so petty for picking fights over new friendships. But it wasn’t like that in my eyes. To me, they were doing everything short of sticking their tongues down each other’s throats. And I couldn’t make him understand how that made me feel.”

            “It’s not on you if he couldn’t understand that,” Fuma says. “In the end, you did yourselves a favor and got out of it before he could cheat on you. ‘Physically’ cheat, I mean.”

            “Maybe,” Kento hedges. “I just don’t want to wake up one day and regret letting go instead of holding on tighter.”

            “Doesn’t sound like you will,” Fuma surmises. “You said so yourself, you’re winning gold in your next three tournaments. Who gives a shit about engagement rings when you can get yourself an Olympic medal?”

            Fuma makes a fair point. Still, Kento goes on to rambles about his ex, unable to stop once started. He flip-flops between the Canadian’s worst offenses (“what’s so good about maple syrup, anyway?”) and all the things he misses about him (“and now I can’t eat maple syrup anymore – how am I supposed to eat waffles?!”) as Fuma listens with hardly any interruption. When Fuma suddenly signals for Kento to stop with a finger to his lips, Kento shuts up right away.

            From a distance, they hear footsteps approaching. Fuma grabs Kento by the collar and tugs him down, leaning flat against the side board so they’re safely hidden. Their emptied containers clatter to the floor and out of vision.

            In close proximity, Kento and Fuma listen as the steps grow steadily louder. They’re pressed together, arms touching from shoulder to elbow. Kento can smell Fuma’s shampoo, stronger than the faint whiff from that morning when Fuma walked past him straight out of the shower. The scent is almost colorless, nothing strong or distinct, but their proximity causes Kento’s senses to go on overdrive. He exerts effort to breathe normally, certain that Fuma would be able to tell if his chest were to rise and fall in an irregular rhythm.

            Okada, the hockey team’s assistant coach, can be heard shouting. “No Fuma here, either.”

            The voice of the team doctor (and unofficial assistant coach), Inocchi, rings out next. “Oh, well. Sorry we lost your forward, Sakamoto. Shall we send out a search party to the cute girls or boys that he might have gotten lucky with?”

            The response that comes afterwards (“one in particular, if he got really lucky”) fades as it’s uttered, signaling that Inocchi and Okada are moving on to their next destination.

            Kento’s self-consciousness had dissipated after Inocchi’s suggestive wisecrack. Once the voices are completely out of earshot, he turns to Fuma with a leer, anticipating clarification.

            Fuma shrugs. “They like to think that we’re enjoying our youth to the fullest. I mean, I wish it were true.”

            Kento laughs. “There it is, the real reason you want to make hockey popular in Japan.”

            “What other reason is there?” Fuma quips before rummaging through his bag. “I should text them and let them know I’m not out cavorting. Someone’s got to burst their bubble.”

            “‘Girls or boys’, huh?” Kento scrutinizes Fuma as he searches for his phone. “Coming out seems to have worked out for you. That interview you gave was really powerful.”

            Fuma’s hands falter for a split second. “You read that?”

            “Yeah, my mom sent it to me. She said it made her cry.” Kento smiles absently over his mother’s sentimentality. “It’s nice that your coaches and teammates are cool with it. Cool enough that they’re a little more involved than I thought they’d be.”

            “They’re a little _too_ cool with it,” Fuma seconds. “To think my folks were more apprehensive about me coming out to my team than to a national publication. The team’s a bunch of good guys, at their core – the Olympic team and my regular team. They do say shit sometimes, but it goes both ways. I mean, it’s a lot like a family. And we’ve got a specific goal, and our best chance at reaching it is by bringing out everyone else’s full strength.”

            “A family…” Kento is not quite able to hide the tinge of envy that colors his voice. He switches his focus on the zeal behind Fuma’s speech. “You said something cool.”

            Fuma proceeds to grant his phone disproportionately high concertation in a blatant attempt to hide his reaction to Kento’s flattery. “Damn it, it’s hard to text when my hands are freezing,” he mutters, interrupting Kento’s thought process of wondering whether he can get away with calling Fuma cute to his face.

            “Oh, I have something.” Kento goes through his own bag to retrieve a pair of gloves. He waves them in the air triumphantly. “They’re good for touchscreens.”

            Fuma mumbles a word of gratitude, allowing Kento to pull a glove over his left hand.

            Fuma proceeds to text under Kento’s watchful eye. “You didn’t bring a jacket, did you?” Kento asks. “You look cold. Your ears are turning red.” When he doesn’t receive an answer, he takes it upon himself to breathe unto his palms and rub them together for extra warmth, repeating the cycle twice before using them to cover Fuma’s ears like human earmuffs.

            Fuma glances at him questioningly. They’re close enough that the direct eye contact must embarrass him, and he goes back to staring down at his phone. “I can smell the seaweed you ate.” He rips the glove off his hand and stuffs it into the side of Kento’s bag. “How would you like it if I got chicken breath all over your face?”

            Kento grabs Fuma’s wrists when he attempts to mimic Kento’s earlier actions. “No, don’t, my ears are really sensitive!” He cringes at the admission as soon as he gives it – that’s practically asking for ear assault.

            What follows is Fuma chasing Kento around the stands and Kento ducking away from him as though his life depended on it. An errant step allows Fuma to capture him, arms going around Kento and pinning his elbows to his sides. Kento laughs uproariously as he struggles to put distance between them, to no avail.

            Fuma has Kento at his mercy, and he exhales right over one of those aforementioned sensitive ears, making Kento shudder. Kento would fret over how it’s making his boxers tighten ever so subtly, but he’s too busy laughing so hard that tears are prickling his eyes. Likewise, Fuma’s cackling at Kento’s ticklishness, and he blows directly into Kento’s ear until they’re both in hysterics.

 

 

❄

 

 

            Tsukada gasps when he sees Kento. More specifically, Kento’s attire. “Awww! Are you guys official?”

            Some of the hockey players are already congratulating them before Fuma can reply. “We are officially… cross-discipline archrivals.”

            Kiriyama crosses his arms, unimpressed. “You are officially a dork, Fuma.”

            “You came to movie night together, with one of you wearing the other guy’s clothes, because you’re ‘archrivals’?” Shige sums up with a healthy dose of skepticism.

            Fuma studiously flouts their curious stares. “We had a bet, and he had to wear a hockey jersey if he lost. As you can tell, this loser lost, so I had to lend him a jersey.”

            None of them seem to hear Fuma. Senga slaps Miyata’s shoulder excitedly, and Kamiyama looks between the two of them with wide-eyed enthusiasm, one hand over his mouth. Even Sou and Marius are letting out twin delighted squeals.

            For the rest of the night, Kento and Fuma have an unspoken agreement to stay out of each other’s paths, if only not to fan the flames of the hockey team’s blazing insinuations. Fuma stays with his scandalmongering team while Kento seeks out the company of the female figure skaters. The ladies also happen to be sharing juicy tidbits within the training camp circuit – the major difference is that they’re tactful enough to leave Kento’s attire out of it.

            The next time Kento sees Fuma, he’s on the way to the kitchen to grab some drinks for the group. He stops short of the entryway, spying Fuma chatting with another athlete that Kento has seen on the ski slopes. Normally he’d have no compunctions popping in for a grab-and-go, but he’s rooted in place when he catches on to what the two are discussing.

            “Is it a fling? Or are you angling for something serious with him?” the skier is saying.

            “Also none of your business.” Fuma softens his words with forced chuckling. “You are worse than my team, and those guys enjoy meddling more than they enjoy winning games.”

            “I’m looking out for you, man! You have no idea what you’re getting into. I hate it to say it, but figure skaters are a stuck-up breed. If all you two want to do is fool around, then good for you. If you’re looking for anything beyond that… you might want to turn somewhere else.”

            Kento’s eyes widen, and he’s surprised that lasers aren’t coming out of them. He envisions himself storming into the room and driving a knee into that skier’s groin. Fuma comes to his defense in his stead, though it’s a lot more understated and roundabout than what Kento had in mind. “I wasn’t aware you’ve had that many relationships with figure skaters.”

            “Not me, personally. One of my teammates went out with this figure skater a while back. That girl she dated was gorgeous, but I’m telling you, I’ve never met anyone so uptight,” the skier claims. “You have to understand, they’re trained to be that way. They’ve got strict regimens, they win, they get praised. Put anyone through that cycle often enough, it’ll convince them they’re better than everyone else. It sounds mean, but that’s the truth, no matter how you want to sugarcoat it.”

            “Gotcha. Like I said, I’m just impressed that you can come up with a rule that applies to every single figure skater in existence, based on one vicarious experience.”

            The skier scoffs. “Come on, you’re smarter than that. Nakajima is a decorated athlete in a headliner event. Not to mention a pretty boy whose looks are constantly validated by the public. What are the odds that he isn’t full of himself?”

            “He’s definitely full of himself. I could’ve told you that.” As he says this, Fuma looks over to the doorway, catches Kento’s eye and smirks.

            Crap. It’s too late for Kento to hide. As he scrambles to think of his next move, Fuma walks towards him. He signals for Kento to follow him with an upward jerk of his chin. “Let’s head back, I don’t want that shirt smelling like you.”

            “Fine by me, I have to work out some kinks in my program.” Kento pokes Fuma’s side, wrangling a protest out of the other’s throat. “You could’ve at least told that asshole that we aren’t dating if you were going to badmouth me like that.”

            “And give him the satisfaction of thinking that he’s saved me from your evil clutches?” Fuma snorts. “Besides, it’s not like denying it has worked out. You saw how far that got me with my team.”

 

 

❄

 

 

            After Fuma retires into his bedroom and Kento into his makeshift one, Kento strives to banish thoughts of how he’d been recommended exclusively for encounters of the no-strings-attached kind. The only problem is, he’s the type that has a hard time letting things go, as exemplified by him agonizing over a relationship that should’ve been long forgotten by this time.

            He spreads out on the sleeper couch, opening his notebook to the latest page filled with notes. Try as he might to consign it to oblivion, the cruel conversation he’d overheard leeches on his thoughts. He spends an inordinate amount of time tapping his pen on his notebook or twirling it between his fingers. He hatches an idea to drown out idle musings and gain creative inspiration with music.

            And it’s only polite to get Fuma’s permission for that.

            Kento paces back and forth a couple of times before he marches up to Fuma’s door and knocks. Fuma’s answering shout to come in is instantaneous.

            Inside Fuma’s room, the owner is sitting on his bed with a pad of paper on his lap and an earphone in one ear. “Oh, I thought you were coming in to return my shirt.”

            “I put it in with my laundry. I’ll have it back in your hands smelling of detergent and nothing else.” Kento surveys Fuma’s room for a second and has another change of mind. “Actually, I’m here to ask if some music would bother you, but I just got another idea. Since you’re not using your desk, may I?” He holds up his notebook as if to justify his request. “I’ll be quiet. I’m refining my steps right now.” As soon as he says it, he thinks he’s going to get called out for not using the dining table, if all he wanted was a flat surface to write on.

            Fuma seems to think about it for a second, and goes against expectations with an offhand, “Suit yourself.” He unplugs his earphones from the jack, letting music stream through the speakers. “But we’re using my playlist.”

            Kento doesn’t have to force himself too hard to like the contemporary R&B jam that Fuma foists on him. It’s not what he had in mind, and he’s not about to download a copy of the track for later use, but it’s tolerable. “You’re sure I’m not bothering you with whatever you’re doing?”

            “It’ll bother me if you ask five more times whether or not I’m bothered,” Fuma says. “And what I’m doing, by the way, is working on plays we can pull off.”

            “Wow, you do that sort of thing for your team? That’s a big deal, isn’t it?”

            “Not really.” The little upward quirks of Fuma’s lips contradict his words.

            Unexpectedly, Kento’s concentration improves after situating himself in Fuma’s room. He makes some edits that he thinks would really work, from the perspective of telling a story as well as garnering technical points. Some nine or ten songs from Fuma’s phone later, Kento is leaning back and stretching, satisfied with his progress.

            He glances over at Fuma and finds him engrossed in his work. Kento appreciates his profile, covertly soaking up the little wrinkle between his finely-shaped brows and the slightly snarled pillowy lips, those rare physical signals of Fuma’s profound devotion to his sport.

            Out of the corner of his eye, he spies a magazine on the desk and idly flips it open. It has photos and articles of Japan’s Olympic participants, including a feature on Kento, Sou, and Marius wearing matching jackets and grins. When he gets to a page displaying his three roommates and the rest of their squad, a jubilant peal of laughter escapes him.

            Fuma’s head snaps up at the sound. “What’s so funny?”

            “Sorry!” Kento shakes his head and orders himself to calm down. “I’ll be quiet.”

            “Let me see,” Fuma presses. “What page are you on?”

            Kento approaches the bed and Fuma scoots to the side, clearing space for Kento to sit and share his latest source of entertainment. “Look at these game faces!” he coos. “This is the best photoshoot ever!”

            Fuma pouts. “You should see those posters of you in the train stations. The ones that look like they belong in a host club.”

            “No, I’m serious, this is amazing.” Kento teems with undue pride with only a dab of humor mixed in with it. “This is a line-up of predominantly beautiful men.”

            “Are there that many? Check again. How many times are you counting me?”

            “Idiot, it’s not just you. Look, Hasshi’s hair is a masterpiece.”

            Fuma leans closer to inspect Kento’s claim. He makes a dubious sound and moves to turn the page, but he pulls back at the last second, snatching his arm back and clutching it to his chest.

            Alarmed, Kento puts the magazine aside and faces Fuma. “What’s wrong?”

            “Nothing.”

            “Is it your wrist?” Kento takes Fuma’s arm, turning the latter’s grimace more pronounced, and begins to apply pressure onto the joint. Fuma tries to shake him off, but Kento keeps him in place with his other hand. “What happened?”

            “Nothing, I said. Ow!” Fuma cries out when Kento kneads with deliberate vigor as punishment for withholding facts. “Senga’s a klutz who whacks his own teammate instead of the puck. That’s all. It’s not a big deal, it’ll heal by itself.”

            “Did that opinion come from Inocchi-sensei or any of the medical staff?” Kento sighs when Fuma doesn’t answer him. “Did you even get it looked at?”

            “Inocchi-sensei would think I’m concussed if I came to him with a non-existent injury. I can play through this, easy.”

            “How does it help anyone if you overexert yourself?” Kento disputes. “Listen, I had to back out of an exhibition a few years ago because I got myself hospitalized from dehydration. Do you know how stupid that made me feel? And that was just me letting myself down – I didn’t have a team relying on me.”

            “That wasn’t a few years ago,” Fuma counters. “It was on the news. Why would you lie about that, are you an idiot?”

            “Alright, so it happened this year. The fact remains, I know what I’m talking about.”

            “Easier to dispense advice rather than accept it, huh?” Fuma’s soft timbre accompanies an almost shy acquiescence to the massage.

            “Will you know when you’ve reached your goal?” Kento muses, after a minute or so of quietly pouring his attention into massaging Fuma’s wrist. “Or is the goal to keep pushing until you’ve got nothing left to give?”

            “I’ll know when I reach it. But goals evolve. It’s like how final bosses are harder to beat as you level up.” Fuma sees that he’s lost Kento with his analogy, and he retools it for his audience. “Or, it’s like training. You add resistance or increase weights the stronger you get. You push for what’s within your grasp until you’ve grown enough to redraw those borders.”

            “What’s with all the cool lines you’ve been spouting off recently? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re trying to impress me,” Kento accuses jokingly.

            Fuma lets out a flustered laugh, but he’s quick to deliver his comeback. “Who says I’m trying? I’m naturally impressive.”

            As much as Kento is open to the idea of prolonging the contact between him and Fuma, he knows that his time is finite. He confirms this with a glance at the clock that makes him balk at the late hour. With one last gentle squeeze around Fuma’s wrist, he reluctantly admits that he has to get up early the next day.

            Kento is almost completely sure he isn’t imagining the disappointment on Fuma’s face as Kento gets out of his bed, movements languid for reasons that have nothing to do with sleepiness. “Going running?” Fuma asks.

            “For a bit. Then I’ve got off-ice training.”

            “Wake me up when you go for a run.” Fuma squirms down to get into laying position, already turning his back to the door before he finishes his sentence. “I want to see if you can keep up with me this time. Pretty sure last time was a fluke.”

            “Whatever helps you sleep tonight. By the way, I’m dropping you off at the infirmary afterwards.”

            Fuma responds with a loud fake snore.

            When Kento calls him a brat, it comes out so warm and fond that he may as well have been wishing Fuma a good night.

 

 

❄

 

 

            Kento is walking behind Sou and Marius in their cheery march to the rink, and yet it’s him that Kawai locks eyes with and treats to a knowing smirk when they come into view. Kawai is still looking at Kento when he addresses Fuma, “We support you 100%, Fuma, but you’ve got to remember the real reason we’re here.”

            Kento can only see the back of Fuma’s head, but he detects the amused confusion in the latter’s question. “What the hell are you talking about?”

            “You can’t have your boyfriend come to practice. Save that for your own time.”

            Fuma, Fuma’s teammates, Fuma’s coaches, and Sou and Marius all turn their heads in unison to look at Kento. The large-scale synchronicity is almost impressive. “I– We– Uh, Matsushima, Marius, and I need the keys to our rooms.” Kento croaks, caught off-guard by the lion’s share of attention afforded to him. “Coach Ken says he left his bag with one of you?”

            Inocchi and Okada trade glances, fingers pointed at one another. After a beat, Okada opens his mouth in realization. “Ahhh, we left his things at the reception area. We told Go to pass the massage.”

            Sou nods understandingly, knowing his coach – and the man’s playground rapport with Marius’s coach – all too well. “That explains it.”

            Kento holds back from sighing out loud. He bows to the hockey team coaches, and Sou and Marius parrot his mannerisms. “Thank you! We’re sorry for interrupting your practice, we’ll sort things out at the reception desk.”

            “Hang on.” Sakamoto eyes the three of them appraisingly. “You’re heading back to your rooms?”

            “Yes, sir.” Kento is inundated with instinctive panic at being addressed by Sakamoto in such a forthright manner, despite Fuma’s assertion that the man has since mellowed out.

            “We lost our Osaka faction to a PR engagement for the day, so we’re down seven players. You three could really help us out in our scrimmage.” Sakamoto assesses the blank faces he gets in response before pulling out the big guns. He points to Sou and Marius. “The least your coaches can do is lend you guys to us for a couple of hours after they dismantled the ice resurfacer yesterday after they took it for a ‘test run’.”

            Just like that, the three figure skaters get roped into the hockey team’s practice game.

            Fuma and Nikaido lead their temporary teammates to the lockers where they suit up with stolen equipment from Junta, Kamiyama, and Kotaki’s lockers, pilfering everything from their helmets down to their skates. Kento puts his foot down on borrowing their mouthguards.

            The figure skaters waddle around in copious pads and protective gear for every conceivable body part. At one point, Fuma gets fed up with the long-drawn-out process and personally yanks Sou’s hockey pants up himself.

            As they head back out to the ice, all eyes are drawn to Fuma and the way he taps at Kento’s wrist to adjust the latter’s grip on the hockey stick. Kento nearly drops the stick when he hears one of the hockey players asking Fuma if he’s teaching Kento “how to hold his wood”.

            Sakamoto cuts off Fuma’s ready rebuttal, announcing that he’s going to referee, and that Inocchi and Okada will take on coaching duties. Inocchi’s team has Kitayama at the helm, while Fujigaya represents Okada’s team. Kitayama and Fujigaya select one player at a time for their respective teams in alternating turns. One by one, Kitayama adds Tamamori, Tottsu, Senga, Tsukada, Nikaido, Kento, and Sou to be part of his roster. Fujigaya, meanwhile, takes Yokoo, Fuma, Hasshi, Goseki, Shori, Marius, and Miyata. (They make it clear to the figure skaters that Miyata getting picked last is a time-honored tradition not to be messed with.)

            Kento, Sou, and Marius stay on the bench as the starters get into position for the face-off. Kento’s full attention is on Kitayama and Fuma at center ice, enthralled by the tense, electric atmosphere between them. Kento might be reading into things after Fuma had told him about how he’s poised to take Kitayama’s spot in the roster. He might be overlaying the scene with fictional drama between the present star and the future one, the hardened veteran versus the plucky upstart.

            Tsukada patiently explains rules and positions to Kento and Sou, including what’ll be expected of them. “Your role in the defense line is to clear the loose pucks. But you’ve got nothing to worry about, Tama-chan’s got wicked reflexes.”

            “Oi, Tsuka-chan, enough babying the new recruits,” Inocchi calls out to them, goofy intonation signifying the level of seriousness with which he should be taken. “Their blood shall baptize this ice and offered at the altar of the hockey gods!”

            No sooner after Inocchi mentions blood, Fuma gets checked into the boards, crashing and sinking to the ground. Kento is on his feet before he knows it, and Tsukada has to pull him back down to his seat. “We’ll be penalized if you go out there!”

            “But he—!”

            “He’ll be fine.” Inocchi pats Kento’s shoulder, a little more subdued than he was mere seconds ago. “That’s nothing. As his physician, I can assure you he’s survived far worse.”

            Kento gapes at their flippant reactions, appalled by the purposeful use of violence in a scrimmage and worried that Fuma might exacerbate his recently healed wrist. He moves on to worry about himself when Inocchi calls for a line change, replacing Tottsu and Nikaido with Tsukada and Kento. To his embarrassment, Kento wobbles in his first steps, like he’s some tourist visiting a rink for the first time.

            Kento gravitates around his team’s goal crease in a concerted effort to be as much help to Tamamori as he can. Fujigaya, Fuma, and Shori race towards him on a 3-on-2 breakaway, and Kento stands his ground – that is, until he deduces that Shori has no plans of decelerating his breakneck speed. Kento submits to his instincts and sidesteps to safety, opening up one side of the net and making it that much more accessible for Shori to slide the puck past the goalpost.

            Fujigaya snickers openly as Fuma and Shori celebrate their team’s point. “What’s the matter, Swan Lake? I thought your kind is supposed to be so much better than us lowly hockey players.”

            Kento is mouthing “Swan Lake?” to himself as Kitayama skates up to him. “Don’t mind Fujigaya, he’s in enforcer mode.”

            Kento bites back protests at the unnecessary reassurance. It’s not the first time he’s been erroneously pegged as delicate, but the presumption doesn’t stop being annoying.

            “I guess Captain Shrimpy expects his team to win if you sashay in front of Kikuchi often enough,” Fujigaya continues, not deterred by Kitayama’s interference.

            Kitayama again doesn’t give Kento time to react. “It’s not your fault if Fuma gets thrown off.” He leans in to whisper, “Though if you want to, say, intentionally distract Fuma, Inocchi-sensei and I will be the last ones to discourage you.”

            Kento is more at ease when he notices that the hockey team is noticeably wary of going full force at the newbies. Nobody’s checking him, and they circle around Sou and Marius with a wide radius, as if the two youngest are protected by an invisible forcefield.

            One time, Kento swings with gusto at empty air, scraping the surface of the ice but missing the puck entirely. The action sends him falling face-first. Senga races to help him up, but Sakamoto gets there first. “Please don’t forget how to skate all of a sudden,” he says, oddly meek. “I’d rather not know what’d happen if I return you to Nagano with broken bones.” And that’s how Kento learns that Fuma’s legendary demon coach is inexplicably afraid of _his_ coach – the downright motherly Nagano with his unflappable geniality and otherworldly patience.

            Following that incident, Kento makes the opposing team pay for the special treatment they’re giving the figure skaters. He ventures out beyond the other team’s blue line when his team gains the zone. He’s exhilarated when he’s able to send an assist, and later on, unspeakably ecstatic when he scores a point of his own by momentarily stunning the defense with a well-timed pirouette.

            Tottsu tackles Kento in a celebratory huddle and their teammates join in not long after. This time, Fujigaya’s trash talk comes out more amused than inflammatory. “Getting fancy, Nutcracker?”

            Kento laughs. “Your ballet knowledge is actually very impressive!”

            “‘Nutcracker’ isn’t a bad nickname for a hockey player,” Fuma snickers.

            When he’s back on the bench, Kento is amped, blood rushing through his veins. The action on the ice has him cutting off the circulation in Senga’s arm as he squeezes it out of excitement. He also lends his voice to the cacophony of hoots whenever a player is sent to the penalty box for whatever minor infraction.

            Sakamoto calls it a day at the end of regulation with the two teams tied 5-5. He turns down their requests for a shootout or a golden goal since the ice needs to undergo scheduled cleaning.

            Kento, Sou, and Marius file into the lockers along with the hockey team, where Fujigaya singles Kento out to explain his in-game behavior. Fujigaya must take notice of Kento’s effortless condonation, because he wraps up his apology with a smirk. “We’re cool, then. No need to send your boyfriend after me.” He winks before glancing coyly in Fuma’s direction.

            Kento has a token protest at the tip of his tongue which dissolves when his mental functions are arrested by the sight that greets him. The sight of Fuma, surrounded by a mountain of discarded pads and protective gear, down to a skintight undershirt that he’s peeling off with perfect nonchalance.

            Kento swallows as his eyes map out the lines defining Fuma’s stomach and chest, mesmerized by muscles that take shape as arms flex. When Fuma turns to the locker, he gives Kento a view of his back, displaying visible firmness covered in an expanse of creamy white skin.

            It is definitely creepy to ogle your half-naked childhood friend while he’s changing. Kento knows this, and yet he finds it impossible to tear his gaze away now that he’s being unknowingly offered more than a glimpse.

            Thankfully, Marius pulls Kento out of his trance by asking for help removing his pads. The concept of removing any part of the younger boy’s clothing is better than getting hosed down with ice water. Kento’s internal temperature mitigates to normal levels as he helps Marius step out of his gear. He’s almost forgotten about the incident by the time he and Sou are doing stretches together.

            As Kento exits the rink, room key successfully retrieved, Fuma simply has to stop him and remind him of his sins. “Had a good stare?”

            So much for the hope that Kento been subtle about his perving. “You say you’re my archrival. I’m simply investigating what I’m up against.” The sexually frustrated part of his brain helpfully provides a mental image of pressing himself up against a set of abs that he might have accidentally-on-purpose committed to memory.

            “Cute goal back there, by the way.”

            “What do you mean ‘cute’?!” Kento demands. “If not for my goal, your team would’ve won.”

            “I know, thanks for the math lesson. Learn how to take a compliment.” Fuma snorts at the remaining doubt broadcasted on Kento’s face. “If I’m making fun of anything, it’d be the way you let Shori score on you. It was hysterical how you cleared the path for him like you were the puck’s personal butler.”

            “I’m not ashamed. Shori was so fast, he could’ve been a bullet headed towards me.”

            Once inside their room, neither of them make a move very far from the doorway, lingering in the entrance even after they’ve put their belongings away. “Other teams tend to underestimate Shori,” Fuma is saying, leaning on the wall adjacent to the entrance. “They forget he made it to the Under-18 Men’s World roster when he was just 15.”

            Kento smiles at the fond undertone in Fuma’s comments. “It’s cute that you’re so proud of him. Shori brags about you, too, for your information. Not so much about your hockey skills, though. More that you’re… boyfriend material, maybe? Which I will generously assume he isn’t doing under your instructions.”

            “Yeah, I don’t recall asking my teammates to advertise my bachelorhood.”

            “He and I were doing laundry the other day, and then, totally out of the blue, he goes, ‘Say, Kento-kun. Do you know Fuma-kun has never cheated on his significant others?’” Kento switches to a dulcet falsetto in imitating Shori’s voice, making Fuma laugh out loud. “Why? Why bring that up all of a sudden?”

            “Good to know Shori’s pimping me out,” Fuma says, more amused than anything else. “Can’t say I’ve heard a peep from your kids about you. Should I be worried that that’s coming? Actually, should _you_ be worried that they aren’t keen on giving their caretaker away? They both look like mama’s boys to me.”

            “Who’s ‘mama’ in this scenario?” Not that Kento is too put off by what Fuma indirectly called him – it’s no worse than resembling a bushy-tailed rodent. “If I had to guess, I’d say you aren’t up to their standards. They probably don’t think you’re good enough for me.”

            “I’m not good enough? Unlike the charming American who unceremoniously dumped his boyfriend during a tournament?”

            “First of all, he’s Canadian. Second, I was not the dump-ee. And third, he is charming, in a quiet kind of way. Matsushima pretty much programmed his number into my phone the day we met, so you’ve already been one-upped in that regard.” Kento’s not going to tell him that it’s more likely that Sou and Marius are still misguidedly intimidated by Fuma.

            “…Is that a challenge?”

            “It was a fact,” Kento responds at the same time Fuma declares, “Challenge accepted.”

            “I’ll change your kids’ minds about me during the party tomorrow,” Fuma vows. “Be prepared – those two are gonna badger you until you ask me out.”

            Kento scoffs then pauses. He tilts his head in recollection. “Do you mean the party that the snowboarders are throwing? You’re going to that?”

            “Yup, the whole team is. Nikaido supposedly extracted several promises from Matsushima that he and Marius are coming.”

            “Oh. In that case, I’ll have to go. I have to keep an eye on those two, after all.”

            Fuma hums. “You do that, Nutcracker.”

            “You should be ashamed of yourself, stealing someone else’s insult for me,” Kento tuts.

            “What can I say, it’s accurate. Don’t squirrels crack nuts?”

            The nostalgic nickname causes a fluttering against Kento’s ribcage. “Who are you calling a squirrel?!”

 

 

❄

 

 

            Kento never meant to shadow Fuma at the party, but Sou and Marius leave him little choice, dragging him over to the hockey players every chance they get. Making matters worse, everyone around them gives them a progressively wider berth until he and Fuma are their own self-contained gathering.

            Of course, Kento can’t blame mass meddling on every other athlete in Japan. They could just as likely be steering clear of them because of Kento’s staunch refusal to drink, and his refusal to allow Sou or Marius near anything alcoholic. Alcohol is another one of those pleasures in life that figure skaters sacrifice to follow their demanding dreams.

            Conversely, Fuma and the other hockey players face no restrictions when it comes to libations. Fuma is as free to throw them back in a training camp as he is in the off-season, and he’s sloshed in half the time since he takes it upon himself to intercept drinks that the others try to tempt Kento with.

            More than slightly buzzed just two hours into the party, Fuma poses brazen demands without shame. “You’re telling me you completed the changes to your program and I haven’t seen it?” Fuma petulantly questions Kento.

            “Are you my coach?”

            “I’m the one who gave you the idea to channel your drama with your ex into your routine. More importantly, I’m your _archrival_.”

            “Both of those things are debatable. On your first point, I always edit my choreography. Second, I have my pick of rivals—”

            “—between your talentless ex and his ugly fiancée.”

            “I did not say either of those things!” Kento’s only thought them, thus far. “The point is, I have actual figure skaters to be concerned about. As for you, more than my program, your main concern should be who’s stepping into Kitayama’s shoes.”

            “Why? Hasshi doesn’t stand a chance.” Fuma enunciates each word as if it would make it truer: “I’m. Your. Archrival.”

            “You’re very attached to this concept,” Kento observes. “I’ll be disappointed if this archrival business doesn’t end with me taking home a medal and our men’s hockey team breaking into the top ten.”

            “What makes you think there are any alternatives besides us kicking ass and taking names? You haven’t had a drop of booze, and here you are, spouting that nonsense.” Fuma clasps Kento’s shoulder and leads the way to the middle of the room in a stumbling swagger. “Speaking of which. You’re at a party. You should do at least one party-like activity.”

            “Like what, holding up an intoxicated jock?” Kento has half a mind to slip out from under Fuma’s grip and let him stagger-walk on his own as he takes in the bodies that have communed in the common space. Many of them are gathered in small circles, chattering over the music, while others wind around their fellow athletes, bouncing to the thumping bass. Kento spots one of the figure skating pairs letting their hair down in this very manner, much to his chagrin. It’d be one thing to see his fellow skaters enjoying themselves, it’s another thing to see them grinding shamelessly on each other. “I’m not here for this.”

            Fuma arranges them so their bellies are touching, moving his arm lower down Kento’s back to barricade his potential escape. “What’s wrong? You’ve got to have moves in your repertoire outside of ballet and showboating. Or are you afraid I’m gonna show you up on the dancefloor?”

            Kento understands he’s playing right into Fuma’s hands, but he can’t let such an accusation stand. Just then, Yokoo sidles up to them, grinning at Kento and holding a cup containing a shining, amber liquid.

            Fuma blindly kicks a leg in Yokoo’s general direction, shooing him away. “Would you all get lost already?! Nakajima can’t drink.”

            “Sorry, sorry! We’re just looking out for our teammate. Wouldn’t want him to crash and burn after he’s gotten this far.” Yokoo chuckles as he makes a hasty retreat.

            “Yokoo’s blitzed.”

            Kento snorts. “Yeah, so are you.” He protests when Fuma heaves him forward and makes him teeter precariously from the ball of his feet to his sole. He and Fuma lean into each other as though their bodies are rediscovering gravitational rules, a push and pull so fluid that he questions how they can be staying upright. It’s a good thing Kento is forced to stick to non-alcoholic beverages, because even without anything mucking up his system, a pink-violet fog is taking up all-consuming residence in his head.

            The few surviving synapses in Kento’s brain fire away upon noticing the downward migration of Fuma’s grip. “Hands, Kikuchi, hands!”

            Fuma waggles his eyebrows. “Is there a specific place you want them?”

            “Yes. Above the belt, thank you very much!”

            Fuma’s interpretation of that request is to have his palm ride up, rucking Kento’s shirt higher and giving his thumb room to wriggle below the hem of Kento’s shirt, where it proceeds to tease the skin on his lower back. Kento digs his elbows down, striking Fuma’s forearms and dislodging the other’s hands. “Will you behave?!” An amused snort escapes Kento when he sees the petulant pucker that Fuma’s lips start to form. “Don’t look at me like that. You are so drunk.”

            Fuma shrouds his peevish expression by moving forward so they’re more or less cheek-to-cheek. “Whatever. You like it when people look at you. And you make it real easy for everyone, at that.”

            “What are you making fun of now? The flamboyant costumes? Is it the sequins or the spandex? Be specific.” Kento hopes Fuma doesn’t hear his breath hitch when full lips brush the side of his neck, dragging over the heated skin.

            “My favorite’s that half-corset number you showed me the other night. I didn’t really delete it, so you know. It’s still on my cloud drive.”

            “What?!”

            Fuma pulls away to level Kento with a half-hearted glare, mercifully sparing Kento from having that mouth too close for comfort. “You’re no better. You’re not exactly discreet, checking me out when my shirt’s off.”

            “I’m a healthy human being with functioning eyes!” Kento squeaks in his defense. “No, I mean… I know the bedazzled form-fitting costumes do it for some people, but I didn’t think they’d be up your alley.”

            “I wouldn’t say it’s the costume. It’s nothing new. I already thought you were weirdly pretty back then.”

            “Weirdly… ‘Back then’? What, when you were thirteen?” Kento’s pitch spikes in disbelief.

            “That dumb little squirrel face,” Fuma rambles on, making Kento unsure if he’s being confessed to or being demeaned. “The body came later, after you started showing it off with those costumes. So, it’s not the costumes, although they helped. It was more of: face, body, bam.”

            “Face and body,” Kento repeats dryly. “Great, you had me worried for a second that you might actually like me.”

            “Yeeeahhh, ‘cause I find your personality so off-putting. Curse the bastards that twisted my arm into spending every second of my free time at this camp with you.”

            Kento actually wastes a few seconds wondering if Fuma’s coaching team enforced the terms of his socialization. As he sorts through his confusion, Fuma aspires to take advantage of his momentary distraction, leaning in to steal a kiss.

            “No, time out, you’re plastered!” Kento evades Fuma’s drunken advances, constraining his wrists. “You are cut off, buddy. Off to your room.”

            Fuma nods his approval, letting Kento lead the way. “Privacy. Good idea.”

            “Sleep,” Kento amends pointedly. “ _Sleep_ is a good idea.”

 

 

❄

 

 

            Kento cringes as he hears retching from the direction of the bathroom. He may have woken up with a foot in his face, but by the sound of things, Fuma’s going to have a much rougher morning.

            It proved to be a grueling predicament putting him to bed the other night. He was handsy, annoying but harmless, and insistent that Kento keep him company. Kento compromised, orienting them so their heads were on opposite ends of the bed, overruling Fuma’s appeals for a more conventional configuration. Throughout the night, Fuma attempted to tickle Kento’s soles to get him to submit to Fuma’s preferred sleeping position. Eventually, Fuma eventually passed out with Kento’s ankle clasped in his fist, serving as the world’s least likely teddy bear.

            Kento hears the sounds of the toilet and then the faucet. Soon, he’s greeting his dazed bedmate as he totters into view. “How are you feeling?” Kento helps Fuma into a sitting position on the dining table before pouring apple juice into a glass and sliding it into Fuma’s hands. “You were smashed last night.”

            “You’ve never been hungover in your life. Don’t talk to me.”

            “I have too! I can drink when it’s not competition season. We often do right afterwards.”

            There’s minimal movement on Fuma’s end, aside from his long fingers curling around the glass of juice. After a few seconds, he squints at Kento. “I want to see you shit-faced, too. It’s only fair. Are there videos of those figure skater after-parties uploaded somewhere?”

            “Please. What happens in after-parties stays in after-parties.”

            “Why have them if no one can collect blackmail material?” Fuma returns to burying his head in his arms, muttering, “Guess I’ll settle for a live performance when you’re allowed to drink again.”

            Kento’s heartrate picks up at the careless invitation, making it that much harder to curb the eager agreement ready to burst out of him. “It’s going to be a while before my schedule isn’t so crazy.” His words are bogged down by sincere regret. “I’ve got GPF, then the Olympics, and then Worlds right afterwards.”

            Fuma adjusts his head so his chin is resting on his hands which are face-down on the table. He stares unseeingly at his glass. “Where’s Worlds for you this year?”

            Kento’s mood lightens as he remembers the trip he’ll be taking in March. He’ll be in one of his favorite places on Earth, on top of competing in one of the largest international platforms for figure skaters. “It’s gonna be awesome – we’re going to Milan!”

            “Cool. What better way to get smashed than with Italian wine?” Fuma lifts his head to sip his juice. “I’ve always wanted to go to Italy.”

            “You’d fly 10,000 kilometers to drink wine?”

            “Who wouldn’t want to go to Italy?” Fuma points out. “It’s perfect, I’ll be free by then.”

            “When? During Worlds, you mean? Worlds is the same time as your playoffs, isn’t it?”

            “Exactly, I’ll be busy when you’re busy. I doubt you want to leave Milan the very same day your tournament ends.”

            Kento backtracks, unable to comprehend how they went from talking about Fuma’s hangover to Fuma following him to Milan. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m taking you seriously right now. We both know what a phenomenally bad idea that would be.” He searches for signs of lingering inebriation on Fuma’s face.

            “We do?” Fuma stands abruptly, chair rattling behind him when he gets up to sift through cabinets in search of pain relievers.

            Moments later, Fuma settles on the couch with a bowl of reheated miso soup and a cup of yogurt that Kento forces on him. He checks in with Sakamoto via phone, having already missed their morning drills. After he hangs up, he mutters that Sakamoto is letting him off for the rest of the morning to recuperate.

            Kento takes that as his cue to check the wall clock, and what he sees makes him heave a sigh. “I better start getting ready. Not all of us have permission to slack off today.” He tries to poke Fuma’s side as he passes him by, but Fuma is alert enough to grab his arm and prevent bothersome jabs. Fuma tugs, not letting up until Kento reluctantly joins him on the couch.

            Fuma glances at the hand he’s holding hostage. “Your fingers are long.”

            “So are yours.” Kento is uncertain how he else he’s supposed to respond. “I can only stay for a bit. Coach is bringing specialists in for the day.”

            Fuma flips Kento’s hand over and presses their palms against one another, not acknowledging Kento’s scheduling concerns. He stares at their hands, enrapt. “They’re about the same as mine.”

            Kento follows his gaze appraisingly, trying not to dwell on the warmth they’re passing between each other. “They’re close. Except our thumbs. What is up with yours? It’s incredible.”

            “Thanks, I got it for my birthday.” Fuma flexes his thumb, crooking it over the top of Kento’s to emphasize its length advantage. He repeats the motion a couple of times before curling the rest of his fingers between Kento’s.

            Kento means to ask what Fuma’s doing joining their hands in a loose cradle, but his words have trouble escaping his throat. His entire body must be in some form of mild coma, what with its current lack of cooperation.

            Holding hands is a weakness of Kento’s. The act chips away at the ambiguity that often preys on his insecurity, while also leaving a bit of allowance for other gestures or conversations to round out its connotations. The subtle heat from another’s palm and the fingertips grazing his knuckles assure him in the simplest, surest manner that a connection is taking place.

            At the same time, restlessness lurks beneath the silence. Thoughts are given too much space to wander while they sit around, not talking or watching TV. In the back of his mind, Kento summons an image of his unpacked gym bag and the overview of his training plan for the next couple of months. It’s a chore to haul these to the forefront of his thoughts while his body is fighting to stay still for as long as possible. To stay in this moment and relish how his hand has found a perfect fit in someone else’s.

 

 

❄

 

 

            An impromptu late-night gathering in their room brings with it a timely commotion, deterring further developments along the lines of what happened while Fuma was nursing his hangover. For one fortuitous night, Kento has the entire roster of the hockey team at his disposal to use as a buffer between him and Fuma.

            For a group of people so unapologetically invested in his and Fuma’s personal affairs, the team fails to notice the altered undercurrent between them. Of all things, he has Hamada’s bowel movements to thank for this. The team becomes preoccupied drilling Hamada on what he ate to have rendered such an unprecedented blockage on their toilet, while Fuma jokingly bemoans that Hamada should be doing that in his own room.

            “I’ve been constipated for, like, five days!” Hamada defends himself.

            “I remember, it made for such pleasant conversation over dinner,” Junta deadpans.

            Some ten to fifteen grown men stand around outside the bathroom where Hamada, Yokoo and Kitayama are in search of the least gruesome solution, as it’s too late to call in a plumber. Kento rolls out his sofa bed, speculating that he can get through the night scot-free. But as he fluffs his pillows, he gets the inquiry he’s been dreading in Shori’s whisper-soft tenor: “Kento-kun, are you avoiding Fuma-kun?”

            Kento turns to face Shori, and he groans internally when he finds Sou and Marius flanking him. It’s just what Kento needs – their younger proteges banding forces. “I’m not avoiding anyone.”

            “Is it because of last night?” Sou questions as if he hadn’t heard Kento.

            “Did it make you uncomfortable?” Shori asks.

            Kento studies Shori’s face, suddenly recalling Inocchi’s joke about Fuma getting lucky. “Why? Does Kikuchi make a habit of making advances that would make people uncomfortable?”

            Shori immediately negates this. “That’s not what I meant.”

            “He isn’t like your ex!” Sou interjects. (With unfounded confidence, in Kento’s opinion.) “He doesn’t have any ulterior motives. Or maybe he does, but only with you and no one else.” He grimaces and turns to Shori and Marius for help. “That didn’t come out the way I wanted it to.”

            Shori glances at Sou shortly before prudently taking matters into his own hands. “I was worried that the team’s pestering was troubling you. That’s not Fuma-kun’s fault. He hasn’t said a single thing behind your back. To tell you the truth, he never even mentioned you by name.”

            Kento is more than a little hurt to hear Shori indirectly debunking Fuma’s inebriated claims from last night. He wills himself to shake that feeling off, to use it as further justification not to confront Fuma about the other night.

            “The thing is, it wasn’t hard to figure out,” Shori continues. “Like, we were at a bar once, and your commercial came up on TV – the one where you’re using that cell phone? When it came on, it took Kawai-kun three tries to get Fuma-kun’s attention.”

            Okay, it might be true that Fuma has a bit of a crush. But crushes come and go. Kento himself is fairly infatuated at this point. That doesn’t nullify the multitude of other reasons to hold off on pursuing a love life. “OK, I get it,” Kento says with an air of condescension in line with the worst of figure skaters’ reputations. “You guys are harmless gossips. You’re fine, I’ve heard much worse rumors about me.”

            Shori, the hockey team’s boy wonder, does not go for the misdirect. “I’m sorry, that’s not my point. My point is, Fuma-kun wouldn’t disclose details recklessly. Last night was no exception. Kitayama-kun… did note that you didn’t sleep on the couch. All Fuma-kun said was that you made sure nothing happened. That you might be, in his words, ‘the last gentleman in the world’.”

            “…There you go, nothing happened between me and Kikuchi. Thus, no reason for our behavior towards each other to have shifted one way or the other. Case closed.”

            “So then why haven’t you two talked to each other once the whole time we’ve been here?” Marius interrogates him. “You don’t even look his way when he’s talking.”

            Kento wishes he were more surprised that Marius keeps tabs on whom he talks to and looks at. Before he can speak out against Marius’s periodic inappropriateness, Kitayama hollers for Shori. “You’re missing an important rite of passage! Elites are not exempt!”

            “‘Elites’?” Sou and Marius chorus, curious eyes sparkling at Shori.

            “Long story.” Shori sighs and flashes the figure skaters an apologetic look. “I’ll be right back. I hope.” He trudges towards the direction of the crowd with the gait of a man on a death march.

            Recognizing a prime opportunity for a getaway, Kento takes Sou and Marius’s elbows and directs them away from the commotion. “Time for you two to head out. I’m taking you to your rooms before we get roped into that literal shit show.” The younger figure skaters automatically gripe at their self-appointed chaperone, and Kento will have none of it. “On the way to your rooms, we are going to have a chat about observing fixed social boundaries, _Marius_.”

            “Oh, Kento, don’t worry about it. I’m heading back,” Fujigaya announces. “Marius and I can walk together. We can drop Sou off at his room, too. Can’t take another second of the fumes in here.”

            Kento hardly wants to relinquish the lecture he has lined up for Marius, but he’s in no position to overrule Fujigaya for no good reason. He takes a few tentative steps until a hand clasps his shoulder and pulls him back. He hasn’t turned around to take a proper look at who’s restraining him before he finds himself jerked into a room, door slamming behind him.

            Kento shuffles to right himself, years of working on his balance saving him from landing in a heap on the floor. He glares at his assailant, whose identity comes as no surprise. “They’ll be fine without you,” Fuma says. “For that matter, they can make it to their rooms without Fujigaya.”

            “You didn’t have to drag me in your room to keep me from running after them.”

            “There is no way you would have stayed put if I didn’t.” Fuma averts his gaze. “I get that this isn’t ideal for your mother hen instincts, or your plan to straight up ghost me.”

            Fuma’s tone makes it clear that he isn’t welcome to any attempts at denial. Kento scrambles to come up with the most reasonable excuse possible. “Please don’t take it personally. Coach says I need to focus.”

            Fuma doesn’t buy it. “So if I go to your coach right this second, he’ll confirm that he specifically told you to shut me out?”

            Kento lets out an exasperated sigh. “What do you want, a signed statement? Shall I go on oath?”

            “An explanation would be wonderful.” Fuma crosses his arms over his chest. “Or, go ahead, try and convince me that your attitude reversal was dictated by the same man that you’re always nominating for sainthood.”

            Kento deflates. Fuma has no intention of letting him off easy. They’re going to have to do this the hard way. “I flirt,” Kento concedes. “I flirt a lot. I’m aware of that. But, talking as if we’re going to meet up in Milan, holding hands… that’s crossing a line. I can’t cross it if I’m not going to see it all the way through.”

            “And what’s stopping you?” Fuma asks. “Look, I know there’s a lot on your plate. You’ve got to keep your eyes trained on the future, never mind having things like shadows of old relationships hanging over you. But that…” He softens to a whisper. “That doesn’t erase the way you look at me sometimes. The way you laugh harder when you’re with me. I know that’s not a figment of my imagination.”

            “Of course it isn’t! You’re handsome and driven and kind and one of the funniest people I’ve met, and one person shouldn’t even be allowed to have all of that going for them!” Kento wants to hide himself after that outburst, and it’s then that he realizes how much he’s been holding back. He only gets this unraveled when it matters most. Although as unrefined as it was, it had been enough to paint Fuma’s ears pink. “I’ve enjoyed spending time with you. I won’t deny that. I couldn’t regret even the rocky parts. But after camp, it’ll be impossible to see each other.”

            “Are you banned from using your phone?”

            “I might as well be, for all the time I can allot to anything outside of work.” Kento clutches at his chest, earnestly trying to convey his thoughts. “I love what I do. I don’t want to be put in a position where I’m pressured to put anything above that.”

            “Good, I wouldn’t ask that of you!”

            “Then what’s the point?! I’m not interested in lukewarm. I’m not interested in sporadic texts, or hanging out once a month. I’m not doing that again. I want to be shameless with my affection. I want people genuinely wondering how we haven’t gotten sick of each other. I want our lives to be obnoxiously intertwined.”

            When Fuma speaks, it’s purposefully hushed, a bluish flame on low. “You could have what you want. Maybe not all at once, but why does it have to be all or nothing? What’s lukewarm is if we bury our heads in the sand while the other person walks away from us.”

            Kento drops to a corresponding murmur. “We wouldn’t be walking away for good, would we? There’s nothing set in stone. It’s just such a bad idea to start anything right now.”

            “No,” Fuma disagrees vehemently. “You know what a bad idea is? Everyone you dated before was a bad idea.”

            Kento’s chest tightens. It would be so easy to relent, to be irresponsible and dismiss the risks they’d have to take. “That doesn’t make this idea any better.”

            Fuma pauses in brief contemplation. “I haven’t told you about the selection process for the Olympic team roster, have I?”

            “…That’s a smooth change of subject.”

            “I’m giving you an example of a good idea: our roster selection,” Fuma says without a trace of levity. “It was a brilliant idea. Though it was met with a lot of resistance at first. Kitayama and I had a huge fight when the selections were made. He thought there were others who deserved the spot more than Shori and me. Guys who’ve been in the Asia League a lot longer. Kitayama is too loyal. That made him as hard-headed as me. I didn’t let Shori back out, and I probably made a bigger stink of it than I should have. But, even though Shori and I didn’t earn our place through seniority, we _did_ earn it. We worked our asses off to deserve our spots.”

            Despite himself, Kento gets caught up in the story. “Is that what Kitayama meant by calling Shori an elite?”

            Fuma shrugs, and Kento takes it to mean the affirmative.

            “I wouldn’t have guessed that about you and Kitayama,” Kento says. “He really seems to like you and Shori.”

            “We’re good. Kitayama loves Shori, he always has. The ‘elite’ thing is more of an inside joke now,” Fuma says. “Anyway, Coach got fed up with the infighting and the strain on the team. Inocchi-sensei’s team bonding exercises weren’t doing the trick, so Coach made Kitayama and I play one-on-one to settle our differences. We couldn’t score on each other for a while, but I didn’t let the game end until I scored a goal. That was my winning strategy. I maxed out Kitayama’s stamina.”

            “That’s the moral of the story? Max out someone’s stamina until you get what you want?”

            “The moral of the story is, when there’s something you truly want, the only barriers standing in your way are the ones you consent to,” Fuma responds evenly, sidestepping Kento’s passive-aggressive jibe. He does it with a lowkey confidence that makes Kento’s pulse flicker. It’s the confidence of a man with an audacious dream and the will to make it come true.  “If you’ve ever wanted anything as badly as I have – and I’m sure you have – you gear yourself up to trounce whatever stands in your way. Whatever it is. Whether it’s stamina, or preconceptions, or modesty, or time.”

 

 

❄

 

 

            Kento is waiting by the side of the rink when Fuma enters to join him. He offers the barest of smiles. As relieved as he is to see Fuma accept his invitation, he’s also in the middle of shaking off his nerves. “Thanks for coming.”

            Fuma stuffs his hands in his pockets, overly impassive. “What did you want to show me?”

            “Just a second.” Kento picks up his phone, which he’d left near the border of the stands. He thumbs over it briefly before setting it back down again and taking position on his frosted stage.

            When music starts to displace the quiet, Fuma’s eyebrows conspicuously jolt upwards. The air permeates with the introductory melody of the song he’d played in his room, that night when he was plotting winning strategies for his team while Kento upgraded the sequence of his program.

            It’s a program that Fuma now gets to witness in its most recent incarnation. It starts off with a stutter step, Kento’s toes picking at the ice as though hesitant to make marks on the pristine expanse ahead of him. Kento’s footwork is light and precise, staccato. When he finally lets the blades rest parallel to the ice, he moves in rounded zig zags, dancing in long loops from side to side without meaningful advancement.

            _“Isn’t that what figure skaters do, tell a story with twirls?”_

            In center ice, Kento catches himself in a turn that’s manic and dizzying in its speed. He keeps himself centered and in control. After he exits his spin, he begins to skate forward, one arm outstretched in front of him. Blades carve with aplomb into the ice – he’s a sculptor yielding his weapon of choice, and his muse is right in front of him. He looks straight ahead, following the path that stretches out before him.

            _“Everyone you dated before was a bad idea.”_

            Kento casts his eyes around the rink, frantically searching what he’d suddenly lost sight of. He does crossovers, muddled directions taking him every which way. When he settles into one direction, he’s going backwards, looking over his shoulder and gaining momentum. The moment he hits his stride, he slows. His feet and arms spread out as if to present himself as an offering, leaning on the outside edges of his blades. His spine curves back like a petal in bloom, in seeming danger of teetering with the extreme angle that he’s bent backwards.

            _“I’ve always wanted to go to Italy.”_

            Weight fully on one leg as the other hangs behind him, he glides, an illusion of flight. And then he’s grounded, his body crouching and folding into itself as he spins in place. Slowly, he straightens with each revolution, lengthening close to his full height before dipping down again. He shifts positions constantly. Arms fly out in multiple directions, reaching for unseen targets in one moment, and in the next, they raise to cover his head and shield himself. He’s erratic in his ebbs and flows but he keeps rhythm to the song’s powerful crescendo.

            _“If you’ve ever wanted anything as badly as I have…”_

            His hands gather to his chest, only to push away, fingers unfurled. He looks downward for a moment, then raises his chin with renewed resolve. All of a sudden, he takes off into a triple Axel, but he loses his footing upon descent, scrapes the ice with the side of his leg. He rights himself and moves into his intended landing – the camel spin that Fuma tackled within the span of one night. As he concentrates on powering his spin and keeping his balance, Kento summons his determination along with reserve energy.

_“And I’m sure that you have…”_

            Kento tries one more time without dialing down his efforts, and even elevates the hurdle by attempting a quad loop. He lifts off, spinning with velocity that whips whooshing sounds into the air around him. His feet meet the ice with decisive impact, but he feels featherlight. He lets it show in an elegant stance he carries for less than a second, before springing into weightlessness again, succeeding with a triple jump. Specks of ice whirl at his feet when he slides into place, and to him, they look like the crystals that outline clouds.

            At the song’s final bar, Kento comes to a full stop. He has one arm extended, palm open skyward. His audible panting takes over as the music dies down.

            When Kento turns to his one-person audience, Fuma offers no hints as to the workings of his mind, verbal or non-verbal. He crooks his fingers, beckoning for Kento to approach, and Kento moves towards him like Fuma’s hooked a physical string onto him and is reeling him in.

            “This is why you need me,” Fuma says.

            Kento chuckles breathlessly. “Get a grip on that ego, please.”

            “Not to inspire your choreography, I didn’t mean that. I meant you need my presence as a rival. Because it’s not like you have one of those when it comes to figure skating. Right?”

            “You…” Kento is floored by Fuma’s words, and all he wants to do is grovel about the mistake he’d made of rebuffing Fuma at first. “When did you get so cool, seriously?”

            Fuma leans over the divider, pushing himself up so that they’re eye-to-eye. Preempting Kento’s plan to reintroduce the idea of exploring their evolving dynamics, he reaches one hand out to grab Kento’s shoulder, pulling him closer. “When you’re waiting for your score, that part’s called the kiss and cry, right?”

            It’s not correct, exactly, but it’s close enough. “Kiss and cry. I wouldn’t mind doing one out of two.”

            Kento hopes he doesn’t smell too bad after exerting himself and not holding back, though it’s hard to be insecure when Fuma’s taken to running his nose along Kento’s neck and breathing him in. That nose travels to bump Kento’s, making the tips of their noses rub affectionately. The musky tendrils of Fuma’s cologne and the now familiar shower-fresh scent in his hair waft directly into Kento’s senses.

            They meet in the middle, a tender brush of their lips made more secure with tiny appeals whenever one propels and the other presses back. They each have a hand in the other’s hair, Fuma’s at the base of Kento’s nape to hold him in place, and Kento’s carding through fine strands that slink through his fingers like a gentle waterfall. Kento’s other hand crawls up to rest on Fuma’s chest, where Fuma covers it with his own, holding on so tightly that Kento can feel the hastening throb beneath several layers of clothing. The languid, thorough snag of their lips leaves no room for breath, leaves no room for doubt that this is the best the idea Kento ever had. Most likely the best idea he and Fuma ever had, combined.

            Both are slow to pull apart, and when they do, they don’t get very far. Fuma cups Kento’s cheeks, nearly toppling over in his quest and Kento has to grab his waist to steady him. Fuma joins their lips a few more times in quick succession, and lands a final, lingering one before finally relaxing his hold and planting his feet back on the ground.

            “I wanted our first kiss to be during our first date.” Kento’s pseudo-complaint comes out laughably garbled, made up of winded rasping for the most part.

            Reassuringly, Fuma sounds just as hoarse. “Better late than never.”

            Kento takes pause to mull over Fuma’s words. “Scarfing down convenience store bentos does not count as a date.”

            Fuma sighs melodramatically. “I was warned that you figure skaters are high maintenance.”

            Kento pecks Fuma’s nose in response. “You don’t know the half of it. If you don’t follow through with that promise you made ten years ago, it’s going to bring up fundamental questions about this relationship. I can’t go out with anyone less than the man that puts Japan’s ice hockey team on the map.”

            “Duh. I can’t come out empty-handed if my archrival is headed for an Olympic medal.”

            “Not that term again. Can you just…” Kento squirms away from his comfortable position (sharing personal space with Fuma) to fetch his phone. He types a brief note as he returns to Fuma. “Okay, I sent you a message. Read it out loud for me, please.”

            Fuma takes out his own phone from his pocket. His other hand casually makes its way to rest on Kento’s back once he’s close enough, having apparently decided that it belongs there. “‘Yes, Kento, I would like to be your boyfriend.’”

            Kento is half-thrilled, half-disappointed that Fuma didn’t make him work harder for it. He’ll have to mollify the disappointed half by making up for his prior willfulness in secret. For now, he savors the ache in his cheeks from the sheer intensity of his smile. “Thank you. See, it’s easier to say than archrival.”

            “Wait. Your turn.” Fuma fiddles with his phone for a few seconds, then Kento’s phone produces a tinny chime.

            “‘Yes, Fuma, I would like to be your—’” Kento chokes. “Okay, we’re reinstating archrival, because no my boyfriend of mine would be saying such disgusting—”

            Fuma giggles and tells him to scroll down.

            “‘I know you’re kidding, and I promise not to break up with you yet.’” Kento snorts, the ends of his lips quirking upward. “Don’t tempt me, then.”

            “Honestly, you’d quit everything halfway if it weren’t for me. I can see it now, I’ll be the one working doubly hard to keep this relationship afloat.” There’s a nearly imperceptible tinge of self-consciousness lurking behind Fuma’s humor, and as precious as it is, Kento acts to eliminate it at once.

            He sticks his tongue out, dignified Olympian that he is, and laces their fingers together. “Challenge accepted.”

            Fuma drags Kento towards the lockers, insisting that Kento take off his skates so that they can kiss without Fuma having to stretch up to his tiptoes. Not that it stops him from backing Kento into the side of the lockers, like there isn’t a moment to waste in exploring Kento’s mouth with his.

            When Fuma isn’t distracting him and dispossessing him of all rational thought, Kento thinks back on a few of the spills he’s taken in his career – the fumbled jumps and miscalculated spins. He thinks back on how they taught him how to brush himself off after stumbling. It takes practice, when you’re going for the gold.

           

           


End file.
